My friend and one-time newspaper colleague Bill Osborne writes: “You’re definitely not boring, but here’s a suggestion you might address: Why did you decide to make this trek? What did you expect or want to get out of it? Now that the end is in sight, what have you gotten out of it? What have you learned about yourself?”

Spoken like an editor, and a fine one at that.

Big questions, requiring thoughtful and insightful answers.

Hoo, boy.

Here’s what I started with before I left Mexico in September:

I walk to say that I am still alive, and that I hope that fact means something to someone other than me.

I walk to clear my head, cleanse my body, nurture my soul, reopen my heart, and rediscover who I really am after all these decades. The victory is not in saying, “I’m old, and I still matter,” but in finding out why.

The victory is in getting up and doing it all over again the next morning.

I stand by all of that, as I stand 19 kilometers from the end.

To be honest, I had no expectations, beyond planning to finish the French Camino. I recall my old marathon goal: “Finish with dignity intact.”

I’m okay with who I am as a human being at this point. People like me, dislike me, dismiss me, or wonder about me — for whatever reasons.

I am who I am. I hope that I do no harm. I hope that I do some good. If there is a god, I hope she will keep me around when the time comes.

In a way, I suppose the Camino is a protest against aging. Nothing new there. I don’t know anyone who goes around saying. “I’m so glad I’m old.”

If I’m going to get old, I want to be the one who defines what it means.

So, I guess I’m saying “I can still do big things.” If walking 500 miles is a big thing. It doesn’t seem as big, now that I’m 19 kilometers from Santiago.

Maybe when I get home it will feel bigger.

Maybe when I get home, other people can tell me if I’ve changed. I’m not a great judge of me.

I look at some of the paths we walked: deep trenches worn down by countless numbers of people treading the same 500 miles for centuries.

I’m hardly the first. I definitely won’t be the last. And there are many who make me look like a youngster.

Well, let’s start with the fact that I am 76-years-old.

On the Camino, for a while, it was fun (and a touch flattering) to watch expressions when I announced my age.

Then it felt kind of vain.

More importantly, it doesn’t matter.

On the Camino, people don’t bond over age. They bond over the shared experience. And if you can keep up, if you can walk and talk with others, welcome to the family.

To my delight, I can keep up. And I loved listening to the stories of others.

There are a surprising number of people whom I have encountered over and over, both on the path and in the same auberge at the end of the day. Never planned. Never forced. Always a welcome encounter.

We feel like this free-floating family, an organism from which pieces break off and reconnect from time to time, while the main body keeps moving on down The Way.

I have discovered that I am equally happy walking alone as I am with others. Is there a metaphor for life in that?

Maybe.

I also have discovered that I love walking UP hills. I attack them. On the Camino, hills are my red meat.

Jeez, that sounds so dumb.

I’m clearly avoiding real answers here because I don’t yet have any.

Years ago, I dreamed of hiking Mount Whitney with my three sons — Brendan, Ryan, and Christopher. My thought was, if you can climb to the top of the mountain then you will know in your heart that anything is possible. No limits.

Didn’t happen. Just the same, they are all more successful as career people, family men, and good people in general than I could have ever imagined.

They didn’t need me to prod them. I love that.

Did I need to walk the Camino at 76 years old? Probably not.

Has it been good for me? Yes it has.

I think I’ll keep doing walks — shorter ones, interesting ones, less-demanding ones because I just like to walk.

But in better shoes.

Definitely better shoes.

Give us this day our daily cow.

Me, at the end of the day: